After all the pussyfooting of the previous half-hour, I had no choice. Without hesitation, I looked him in both eyes and replied in as husky a tone as I could muster: “I never have before, but I think you’ve talked me into it, you silver-tongued Romeo.” I scarcely had a chance to bid goodnight to the two boys who were fighting for my attentions. The cowboy grabbed my arm, almost dragged me out of the bar, and pulled me into his bright-pink, slightly battered, 1955 Packard convertible, which had a cracked windshield. The whole scene was too fine to believe! And then it got better.
We drove back to the St. Anthony Hotel, ordered drinks sent up to the room, and, hardly unable to rip the clothes off each other quickly enough during the first second, took a breath and realized there was no hurry. We had the whole night, after all. The cowboy was lean and tan, incredibly hot in every possible way, and we both knew it was going to be fun, whatever “it” was. Lots of fun! We probably smoked a puff or two, and if we did, it was part of the ritual.
He lay down on the bed, looked up and said: “Stand in front of the mirror.” So I did. Then he commanded: “Take off your boots.” So I did. Slowly. Very slowly. Then: “OK, now take off your jeans.”
Having a silent moment of doubt whether or not I should take off my briefs along with the Levis, I threw caution to the winds, took off my jeans and briefs simultaneously, in one fluid flourish, and threw them halfway across the room. I turned, and we looked at each other deep in the eyes. I was standing there naked, except for my shirt and The Jacket. At that point, he got up and stood next to me, facing the mirror, turned towards it and said to my reflection in the mirror: “Take off my boots.” So I began, and while I was taking them off, one by one, he almost fell and grabbed my shoulder for support. Then, looking into my eyes in the mirror, he said: “Now take off my jeans.” So, with no further introspection, I grabbed his jeans – there was no underwear – and pulled them down, very slowly and very gently, looking into his eyes the entire way. “OK,” he said. Now I want you to put that jacket on me.”
He was going to take my Persona. He wanted to wear it. He wanted it on his body; on his skin. I was thrilled and also flummoxed. I wanted my body on his; on his skin. But I had to wait.
“All right,” I told him, “ You can try it on, but you have to know it’s going to hurt.” “Why would it hurt?” he queried. “You’ll find out soon,” I warned him: “All those pins and brooches and feathers and applications to the jacket have metal points and rivets inside, and they can hurt if there’s enough pressure applied.” It’s not smooth and simple and easy. “It’s a Man’s Jacket,” I added: “Are you man and cowboy enough?”
At that, he pulled off his blue Western shirt, which was all that was left, and devouring him with my eyes, I took off the Power Jacket, carefully, and helped him get into it. His eyes sparkled almost as much as the bling on the jacket, and he didn’t care if it hurt . By then, neither did I. I began to press different parts of his body, and he groaned with pleasure, as the pins pressed in. While applying pressure to different areas of the Jacket, and to his skin directly underneath, I was touching his back, his arms, his shoulders, his butt, his thighs, his legs, his calves – every part I could reach except his cock and balls. Those I was saving for later. It was driving us both crazy.
He knew it, of course, and every spot where I touched him became electrified. I was becoming more and more excited, as was he, and we kept up the suspense and the teasing until it simply wasn’t tolerable for one more instant. I pulled the Jacket off him, and, finally, we were both naked, falling into each other’s arms and chests and bellies and legs and feet and ramrod-stiff cocks, rubbing each other with gently wild and insistent pressure. The heat was intense, and it continued to increase. We were on and off each other in almost every way possible, spending the rest of the night together making such a racket that management twice had to telephone and ask us to please hold back.
It wasn’t possible, however. Or repeatable.
The next morning I flew back to Boston. I never saw the cowboy again, never knew his name, never again saw the pink Packard convertible, yet had one of the most unexpected, sexiest and wildest nights of my life. Up until then, at least.
Would you like to see the San Antonio Power Jacket? I’ll put it on for you – if you’re man – or woman – enough.
Image courtesy of Shutterstock
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